1 New Poem

Parades

Watch it on televisions, still, movement captured time by
red cowboy hat Stampede dance of all places
coming in and smiling cutting off vacant air churn
of oscillating fans in lodgers’ bunkbeds,
and strange Saturday silence but on enduring.

Then, again, there’s no surprise:
to squeegee wash things with cluttered shoelace,
nervous hand gesture ticks, those softer pleasantries
to help mouth scrub your share history,

to help with sticking a couple pages together.

So, you don’t have to watch the cracked windows on
television, hear the earnest CBC about it anymore;

you can know the scattering of metal,
tang of fifth morning’s oatmeal,

but also to get your own following parade,
of dirty-faced kids, that could have been you,

without only so much choice to watch,

or to live.